Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt.

Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold?

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.

A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.

Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.

Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?